


Gingerbread

by akane42me



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: Prompts: A Gingerbread House, Threat to World Peace, Camaraderie between Solo and KuryakinWishing you a most Merry Christmas, Glenna!





	Gingerbread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlintheglen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/gifts).



> Prompts: A Gingerbread House, Threat to World Peace, Camaraderie between Solo and Kuryakin
> 
> Wishing you a most Merry Christmas, Glenna!

  **Gingerbread**

_Annual Gingerbread Contest!_

It’s that time of year! Once again, we will be having the Annual _blah, blah, blah_

Your gingerbread house’s walls and roof must be made of gingerbread. All other materials must be edible food and candy. Rubber cement, airplane glue, or Elmer’s Glue or school paste may not be used. No, school paste is NOT considered to be edible. Permissible items include _blah, blah, blah_

Indivdual and Group Categories _blah, blah, blah_

Due December 21 _blah, blah, blah_

Commisary _blah blah blah_

Judging to take place at Christmas Party _blah blah blah_

Solo tossed the flyer back in his in-tray.  

This year, he and Illya were going to win the trophy. He just had to find a way to stop Illya from eating too many of the building supplies.

_* * * *_

 

It was becoming a Christmastime tradition, Waverly thought, after he’d read the weekly Operations and Enforcement summaries.  Just when the world was doing its best to forget its troubles for the Christmas season, Thrush was once again making a mockery of peace on earth, good will toward men.  

Thrush had noticeably upped its game. U.N.C.L.E. was lagging in the score. Four missions fumbled in the past month.  Bungled intelligence. Missteps. Breakdowns. Fiascos.  The failures were adding up.  He would speak to Solo and Kuryakin later in the day, when they returned from their fishing expedition. 

The latest whisper: An upstart business conglomerate, World Technological Solutions, buying up property in Yonkers.  Its board of directors was comprised of the usual assortment of advisors and business magnates.  A routine Intelligence report had raised a yellow flag: One of the board members had been photographed having lunch with a group of men at the Oak Room. Nothing unusual about that, except the group of men were Thrush Central executives.  

Waverly put a hand in his pocket, fished out his pipe, set about filling it and lighting it.  He went to his windows and watched the seagulls battle the crosswinds above the East River. 

The morning brought a sigh of snow in the air, cold feathers brushing his check as he navigated the short distance between his front door and the U.N.C.L.E. car waiting at the curb.  More snow was on the way.  He hadn’t done his Christmas shopping.  A month ago, he had spotted a lovely Faulkner first edition he knew his wife would love. He should have bought the blasted thing the moment he’d come across it. He’d have to ring the shop, and if the Faulkner was still available, have it sent over. Odds were, the book would be gone. He’d botched his own plan. 

His best men were failing all too often, despite the best of plans and odds stacked in their favor. Waverly suspected it was no coincidence.

* * * *

  

Breaking and entering the old button factory was a simple matter.  Solo drove around the property to get the lay of the place. A half-block sized shoe box enterprise, its public entrance was comprised of two boarded up doors, with ‘Parker Custom Button’ painted on the brickwork above them. Along each long side of the building, a row of wooden rectangles, boarded up windows, prevented a look inside. Light cast from the streetlamps revealed unrepaired cracks in the pavement and faded white stripes of parking spaces. No vehicles. 

After completing two look-see loops around the building, Solo parked in the rear next to a door marked ‘Employees’, which was flanked by two panel-truck-sized overhead garage doors.   

“No security fences. No security lights. How negligent,” said Solo. 

“How convenient,” said Kuryakin. “For us.” 

 They went to the employee door.  Solo twisted the doorknob, which proved to be locked. 

“I’ve got it,” said Kuryakin, shouldering Solo aside, lockpick in hand. 

A minute later, they eased inside.  The place was empty and darker than the night outside. They pulled penlights from their pockets, flicked their thin beams around the interior, revealing a bare, deserted work floor.  Disheveled machinery stood along the far wall, shoved out of the way.  They crossed the room to look at the equipment. 

 “Cutting die. Button hole drills. Catcher. Tumbler,” said Kuryakin in a low voice. 

Solo raised his eyebrows, shone his light on Kuryakin. “And how is it you know—” 

From somewhere in front of them a doorknob rattled. A door squeaked, and a rectangle of light spilled onto the factory floor from a doorway on the right side of the factory , then thinned to a slit as the door was pulled nearly shut. Footsteps, running away, faded. 

Solo and Kuryakin drew their guns and ran toward the light.    

Solo, his back to the wall alongside the lit opening, inched the door open. Nothing within moved, so he slid his foot into the opening, widened the gap, and took a fast look.  “Stairs,” he whispered. He took another look. “Empty.” He pocketed his penlight. “Cover me until I get down there, then come down.”

Kuryakin nodded, pocketing his penlight. 

The door below stood open, the room beyond it bright with fluorescent lights. Hugging the wall, Solo edged down the stairs. 

The basement room, like the upper floor, was a vast open space. But it was being prepared for a manufacturing effort; rows of industrial worktables and overhead conveyor apparatus covered most of the space, partially installed. 

The worktable closest to the door was covered with bundles of rolled plans and file folders.  A coffee mug bristled with pens and carpenter pencils.  A second coffee mug stood in a cleared space alongside an open file folder. Solo caught the smell of coffee from the doorway.  A Bunn coffee maker stood on the far end of the worktable, its red button light aglow.  A wheeled office chair, rolled away from the table, sat vacant.  

Bending down, he scanned the space below the tables. Nothing but table legs. He stepped to the worktable, put a hand on the coffee mug. Warm. He scanned the length of the room.  Ahead, on the far opposite wall, a door like the one behind him, an exit sign above it. To the left of it, another door, ‘Maintenance’ stenciled in black letters. 

Behind him, a movement; Kuryakin, silent, gun out, in the doorway. Solo pointed at the far doors, waved his partner forward. Kuryakin scuttled over to Solo at the worktable. 

Solo went right, Kuryakin left, working their way through the rows of tables, ready to duck for cover should one of the doors burst open. They reached the final row of worktables.  Kuryakin pointed to himself, then to the exit door. Solo nodded. Kuryakin went to it, stepped to the side, twisted the doorknob, pushed the door open.  He checked inside, then bounded up the stairs.  

From behind the maintenance door came the sound of something sliding down an interior wall, hitting the floor with a wooden bang. _Broom handle,_ Solo thought. He fast-stepped to the side of the maintenance door. Another sound, that of Kuryakin, coming back down the stairs and through the door. Kuryakin shook his head in a negative. 

Solo pointed at the maintenance door, nodding his head. Kuryakin moved to the other side of the door, gun up. 

“Alle alle oxen free,” said Solo. 

Kuryakin raised an eyebrow, mouthed “What?” 

From within the closet, a nervous sounding voice said, “Don’t shoot. I’m just the janitor.” 

Solo yanked the door open. A janitor in olive-colored coveralls, arms raised, cowered inside.    

“Get out here,” said Solo. 

“Please. Don’t,” said the janitor, stepping out, lowering his arms.  

“Keep your hands up,” Kuryakin ordered. The janitor’s arms jolted upward. 

“Why were you hiding?” asked Solo. 

“The buzzer for the upstairs door went off. I went upstairs to see who was here, and I saw your guns and I got scared and hid. Please, let me go. I didn’t see anything, I promise. I won’t tell no one. I promise.” 

“Tell no one what?” said Kuryakin. 

“What? Uh, that you were robbing the place? There’s nothing worth robbing here anyway.” 

Solo took in the man’s too-large, too-long, stained coveralls.  The soft, clean, manicured hands. The fifty-dollar haircut. The wingtip shoes peeping out from the pants cuffs.

“Nice shoes,” said Solo. 

The janitor’s wide-eyed gaze flew from Solo to Kuryakin, then to the stairwell. 

“Don’t even think about it,” said Solo. He waggled his Special at the man. “Let’s see some identification.” 

The man sighed. He unzipped his coveralls, revealing a three-piece suit. He stepped out of the coveralls, pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket, and handed it to Solo. 

Solo opened the wallet and extracted a driver’s license. “Gerald Siroux. New York address.”  He thumbed through the assortment of wallet cards and pulled out a Thrush photo ID. He held it up to Siroux. "Very interesting."

“I know who you are," said Siroux. You're Napoleon Solo. And he –" Siroux looked behind Solo at Kuryakin, who’d gone to the back worktable and was examining the papers in the open file. “He’s Illya Kuryakin.  You’re U.N.C.L.E. men.” 

“And how is it you know that?” 

“Come on. We all know who you are.” 

"How flattering."

“Napoleon. I think you’d better look at this,” said Kuryakin. 

Solo waved Siroux ahead of him, and they went to the worktable. 

Kuryakin held a paper out to Siroux. “Is this what is going to be manufactured here?” 

“Yes. Miniaturized applications.” 

Solo picked up the file, riffled through it. “DEW systems.” 

“Direct Energy Weapon,” said Kuryakin. Long range weapons that inflict damage by emission of highly focused energy. Anti-personnel weapon systems. Anti-missle systems. Anti-tank. Anti-satellite. Space warfare. That’s just for starters.” He turned to Siroux. What do you mean, miniaturized?” 

Solo answered, reading from the file. “Hand-held plasma pistols.” 

Kuryakin said, “We’ve got to get him to Headquarters.” 

“No!” Siroux’s face turned pale, a frenzy of panic. “Someone might recognize me. No one can know you got me.” 

Kuryakin studied Siroux. “Who are you afraid would recognize you?” 

Solo had his communicator out. 

“No!” Siroux leapt at Solo. Kuryakin grabbed him by the neck and shoulder and smashed him face first onto the worktable top. Siroux’s head knocked into the coffee mug. The coffee mug spun off the table and hit the floor, breaking to pieces. 

Kuryakin hauled Siroux upright. The front of Siroux’s suit jacket shone with spilled coffee. Siroux glanced down, brushed at it, then raked his hands through his hair. 

“Talk,” said Kuryakin. 

“There’s a Thrush mole in Waverly’s operation,” he said. “I don’t know who it is.  But if they find out I'm at your headquarters, they'll find me.  They’ll kill me.  Listen: I’ll tell you everything about the DEWs. There’s more than this place. Lots more. I’m the project head. Not just of this. All of it.  If you protect me, I’ll – ” 

“Enough,” said Solo. He spoke into his communicator. “Open channel D.”

Siroux yelped and grabbed at Solo's pen. "That's not encrypted!"

Kuryakin grabbed Siroux by the neck and shoulder again. Siroux waved him off and sank into the office chair, burying his face in his hands. 

“Open Channel W, private, encrypted,” said Solo. 

Within minutes, Kuryakin and Siroux were on their way to a safe house in Brooklyn, where Kuryakin would interrogate Siroux.  Waverly dispatched a car for Solo, who would  ferry the Thrush material back to Headquarters.  

* * * *

  

Kuryakin arrived at Headquarters just before noon the next day. Solo met him outside Waverly’s office.  Kuryakin’s clothing was bloodstained, disheveled. 

“He didn’t make it,” said Kuryakin. 

_“_ Mr. Waverly said you left him alone. Where were you?” 

“I was indisposed.” 

“You were in the—”  

Kuryakin frowned. Nodded. Looked away. At the floor, at the door. Not at Solo. 

“Mr. Kuryakin?  Mr. Waverly will see you now.”  Heather McNabb’s voice, issuing the summons. 

“Meet me later,” said Solo.  Kuryakin nodded. 

Solo watched Kuryakin disappear into Mr. Waverly’s lair, then went to Communications to pick up a reel-to-reel tape player. Kuryakin had used a manual reel-to-reel machine to record the interrogation.

The plan had been for Tony Lang, a Section Three courier to collect the previous night’s tapes in the morning and deliver them to Mr. Waverly. 

Instead, Security brought the tapes in after tending to Lang’s body at the safe house. 

Intelligence stripped the interrogation portion from the last reel.   

Waverly gave what remained to Solo - the recording of the shooting and Kuryakin’s emergency call. 

Solo threaded the tape  into the blank reel and hit ‘Play’. 

\- -

Kuryakin:  … for a moment. Don’t try anything. 

[Chair scraping] 

Siroux: I’m not going anywhere. 

[Chains rattling] 

[Footsteps] 

Voice: Where’s Kuryakin? 

Siroux: He stepped out – Wait! No! 

Kuryakin: Lang! 

[Gunshot. Gunshot. Scuffling noises] 

Kuryakin: Siroux. Can you hear me? Siroux. Hold on. 

[Scuffling noises. Chain rattling. Scuffling.] 

Kuryakin: Open channel W, encrypted, private. 

Waverly: What is it, Mr. Kuryakin? 

Kuryakin: Siroux has been shot. He’s alive. I’m taking him to Bellevue.   

Waverly: Explain. 

Kuryakin: Tony Lang. The courier. He shot Siroux.  I shot Lang. Lang is dead. 

Waverly: How did Lang get past you?  How did he get to Siroux? 

Kuryakin: I was in the pantry when Lang let himself in. He went to the interrogation room. I ran after him and shot him as he was shooting Siroux.

Waverly: You left Siroux unattended.  

Kuryakin: Yes, Sir. It’s my fault. I – it was – 

Waverly: I’ll send a security team to the hospital. When they are in place, report to Headquarters immediately. 

Kuryakin: Yes, Sir.

\- - 

The machine clicked off. 

Solo went to see Mr. Waverly.

 * * * *

  

“Mr. Kuryakin was eating cookies in the pantry when Lang arrived. Mere steps away, but it may as well have been a mile.”  Waverly paused and met Solo’s incredulous gaze.  “Kuryakin’s sweet tooth killed Siroux as much as Lang’s bullet. I’ve confined him to Headquarters for a week,” said Waverly. “Word has already gotten out about Mr. Kuryakin’s blunder. A bit of humiliation will do him good.” 

Waverly unlocked his bottom desk drawer, withdrew a thick file folder, and handed it to Solo. “Detailed analysis of the Thrush DEW operations. I’ll leave it to you to take care of them.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Solo headed for his office.

_“Where were you?”_

_“I was indisposed.”_

_“You were in the—”_

‘Indisposed’.  Not a euphemism for a bathroom break. 

Something shifted, a screwed-up tilt of a thought. Something he didn’t want to think about _._  

_He lied to me._

* * * * 

 

When Solo got to his office, Kuryakin was already there, sitting in one of Solo’s visitor’s chairs, eyes closed.  Solo sat next to him, looked him over. His partner’s mute self-containment spoke volumes. 

“Must have been quite the reprimand,” said Solo.  

Kuryakin did not react. 

“It’s late. Did you eat?” 

“I’ve lost my appetite.” 

“Let’s get a drink, then.  Charlie will fix us a plate, if we ask nice.” 

“I said I’m not—” 

“But I am. It won’t hurt to get some food in your stomach if we’re having a few.” 

Solo grabbed his keys, got his coat, went to the door, which swished open, and waited.     

Kuryakin silently followed Solo out the door.  

“Where’s your coat? It’s snowing,” Solo said. 

“I’ll be fine. This is New York, not Siberia.” 

Outside, daylight was fading fast. The snowfall was a thin white blanket on the street, the sidewalks. It would be grimed and black by morning. 

Solo tried to chip something loose from Kuryakin’s stone-face during the drive, but Kuryakin was having none of it. 

“I’ve never seen you this moody. What did Mr. Waverly say?” 

“Too much.” 

Solo made a sympathetic sound.  “What did _you_ say?” 

“Not enough.”  Kuryakin wiped the fog from his window. 

“That’s it?  That’s all you’re going to tell me? Come on.” 

“I’ll drink with you. And I’ll eat with you,” Kuryakin said. “But I will not tell you what Mr. Waverly said to me.”  Kuryakin looked out the passenger window. "I will not tell you about the threat to send me back to Cutter to re-learn security protocol. Or about the performance review I just signed.” 

“It’s not the first time Thrush has tripped us up,” said Solo. “And it’s not going to be the last.” 

“Not like this.”

“He kept you on duty.” 

“Yes. But I’m grounded for a week.” 

“So it’s going to be fine.” 

“No, it’s not fine. It’s far from fine.” 

“Illya, if he left you on duty, then—” 

“Napoleon. Please. Just stop.”

* * *  *

  

My Brother’s Place was run by Charlie Delhome, a retired Section Four Chief who saw all and said nothing. The bar’s neon ‘Open’ sign was never lit. The place was a favored hideaway for U.N.C.L.E. agents.  Charlie smiled when they came in and said, “How you two doing?”  He poured their drinks without asking what they wanted to drink.  Solo returned Charlie’s smile and greeting, but Kuryakin’s expression sent Charlie to the far end of the bar.  

There, he polished bar glasses for a while, then went through a pair of swinging door into the back room.  A few minutes later he returned, carrying plates of cold sandwiches, kosher dills, and pickled eggs, which he laid on the bar in front of Solo and Kuryakin. He refilled their drinks, then retreated to his stool near the window and watched the snow come down. He kept a surreptitious eye on the two agents. 

Judging by their moods, they would want their glasses kept filled.  

The weather reports warned of melting snow and streets glazing over as the cold front moved in.  Already the temperature was below freezing, and sensible folks knew enough to stay off the roads. 

He’d send them home in a cab, either way. 

They ate in silence for the most part. They kept their voices low, but the place was empty, what with the snow storm, and snatches of conversation drifted his way.    

“Why don’t you just come out with it?” I can see it in your eyes.” Kuryakin. 

“Maybe you should stop sneaking looks at me in the mirror. It’s creepy.” Solo. 

“You’re blaming me. Like Mr. Waverly did. People are talking. I’m not deaf.”    

“I’m not blaming you.”  Napoleon’s voice, firm. 

“You’re not saying it. But you’re thinking it.” 

Napoleon drained his glass. 

Charlie stood. 

Napoleon set his glass on the bar with a bang. 

Charlie sat down. 

Napoleon examined his own eyes in the back-bar mirror. Saw the flicker of mistrust. Considered bringing up Kuryakin’s lie. Decided against it. 

“You’re blaming yourself. That’s the problem.”  He fished his wallet out and took out money enough for the drinks and food and Charlie’s retirement jar on the back bar. “Time to go.” 

Kuryakin didn’t get up. 

Napoleon sighed.  “Are you coming, or not?” 

“Not. I’ll get a cab.”  Kuryakin lifted his empty glass, waved it in the air without looking at Charlie. 

Charlie stood.  

Napoleon went to the door. Opened it. The little bell tinkled.  Snow and cold air blew in.  “Thanks, Charlie,” he said, and disappeared into the night. 

Charlie walked down to Kuryakin.  Poured a fresh drink in a fresh glass.  “So, how’s it going, Mr. Kuryakin?”

* * * *

  

Solo hung up his coat and went to the kitchen to inspect the gingerbread house. 

“Ah, geez.” 

The night before last, he and Kuryakin had frosted the roof and trimmed the edges with miniature candy canes. Several canes had slipped out of place. One had fallen off. The frosting must have been too wet. 

He uncovered the bowl of frosting and poked it with a finger. It was too thick. He took it to the sink, added a couple of drops of water, took a table knife from the utensil drawer, and stirred the frosting. He added a little more water. 

_Why wouldn’t he admit he was off stealing cookies?  It was a mistake. A bad one._

He took the frosting to the table and tapped at one of the crooked candy canes with the table knife. The candy cane was stuck tight. He got a second table knife. He wedged the blade of one knife under the curved end of the candy cane and tapped on its handle with the handle of the other knife. 

_Did he think I would judge him?  If he can’t trust me with the truth –_  

The little candy cane popped loose. Solo moved on to the next misaligned cane. 

_Can I trust him? This is ridiculous, Solo. You got your little feelings hurt –_  

The final candy cane came free, fell to the floor and broke.  Solo swore out loud.  

_He’d better not have eaten all the extras or I’ll wring his neck._  

There were candy canes left in the bag.  He unwrapped one, applied a swipe of frosting to the roof, and pressed the cane into place. 

_I should wring his neck for lying –_  

Something cracked. The roof shifted under his hand. He looked at the house. Two of the walls were coming apart. He hadn’t realized how much pressure he was applying to the candy cane.  I’ll fix it tomorrow, he thought, and went to bed. 

* * * *

  

After two days, Solo had several operations in motion.  He wrapped up his report for Mr. Waverly, due at the briefing in a half-hour. Enough time for a coffee break.  

He went to the commissary. Kuryakin sat alone at a table, clutching a cup of coffee, looking wrung out.   Solo got coffee and joined his partner. 

“Do you want some cookies to go with that coffee, Illya?” 

Kuryakin made a sour face. “Funny. Very funny.” 

Solo hesitated, then said, “Kidding aside, I have to tell you something. I’m upset with you.” 

“I deserve it.” 

“Siroux died because of your mistake. But that’s not why I’m upset. You lied to me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You said you were indisposed _."_

“That’s nitpicking. You know where I was.” 

“No thanks to you. I heard it on the recording. Mr. Waverly confirmed it. You had two days to talk to me.” 

Kuryakin said, “Lower your voice. People are looking at us.” 

Solo said, “Let them.  I have a meeting. See you around.” 

As he walked to Waverly’s office, the screwed-up, tilt of a thought shifted again. Something in his chest twisted, then broke. 

* * * *

 

 “Very good. The authorities have World Technological Solutions by the throat,” said Waverly, setting Solo’s report on the conference table. 

“Siroux’s information was a gold mine,” said Solo. “We’ve raided every facility and shut them down. It’s been a busy two days.” 

“I’m afraid you’re going to be busier than ever, Mr. Solo.”  Waverly turned, took a stack of folders from his desk, and brought it to the conference table. “Intelligence has been digging up more Thrush plans, thanks to Siroux.” 

Solo sifted through the files. “Siroux said a lot before he died. Is this all credible?  It seems like almost too much information.” 

“Too much for the one session,” said Waverly. “But Mr. Kuryakin has been keeping busy these past two days. He’s been interrogating Siroux nearly non-stop.” Waverly stopped speaking, watching Solo register what he’d just said. 

“Interrogating? He’s – what?” Solo looked at the stack of files. “Siroux is alive.” 

“Alive and well.” 

“And you didn’t tell me because –” 

"There was no need." 

Solo nearly asked why not. He checked the impulse and said, “What really happened at the safe house?” 

“Mr. Kuryakin’s first gambit was to accuse Siroux of lying. He demanded the name of the mole or U.N.C.L.E. would send Siroux back to Thrush, along with evidence that Siroux had turned traitor. If he wanted to live, he’d better give up the mole. The ploy paid off. Siroux named Tony Lang. It took all of ten minutes.” 

“Siroux told us he didn’t know who the mole was,” said Solo. 

“He lied. Kuryakin called me immediately with the name of the mole.” 

“But Siroux really might have been lying. He recognized Illya and me. We don’t know who else he’s aware of. Maybe he pulled a name out of a Thrush Intelligence report,” said Solo. 

“Correct. So, I decided to let things play out. Everything as usual. Lang made the courier run for the interrogation recordings. But I laid a trap for Mr. Lang. I told Kuryakin to leave Siroux unattended. When Lang arrived and found Siroux alone, he showed his true colors.” 

“Sounds pretty risky.” 

“A calculated risk. We protected Siroux with a body armor vest. Kuryakin lay in wait for Lang in the pantry. He followed Lang into the dining room. Caught Lang in the act. He shot Lang before Lang could harm Siroux.” 

“I thought I heard two gunshots on the recording.” 

“Kuryakin shot Lang, then fired into the air.” 

“So when Illya called you to say Siroux was hurt –” 

“A lie. Kuryakin took Siroux to Bellevue, where we had Siroux declared dead. Security brought him here. Mr. Kuryakin has been debriefing him since then.” 

“Illya looks rough. I thought it was because Siroux was dead.” 

“Rather, it’s because Siroux is alive.”  Waverly allowed himself a small smile. “The cookie story is taking its toll, although Mr. Kuryakin denies it.” 

“Why did you make Illya take the blame for Siroux’s death?” 

“We discussed a few scenarios. Kuryakin thought the cookie story would be more believable than Lang beating him to the draw.” 

Solo laughed. “Leave it to Illya.” 

“You’re in on the playacting now.  Play your part well, Mr. Solo. Act as though Mr. Kuryakin was negligent. Act as though Siroux is dead.” 

“How long do we keep this act going?” asked Solo. 

“People forget quickly enough. In a week or so, Kuryakin's supposed blunder will be a thing of the past."  Waverly paused. "We'll have to follow up on the new Siroux information carefully. Play it out slowly. Too much has gone wrong lately to put on the shoulders of Lang, who was limited to Section Three clearance. I intend to keep fishing. For a bigger fish.”

 * * * *

   

“I expect it from Mr. Waverly,” said Solo. “But not you. I expect you to let me in on things. It’s a matter of trust.” 

“It was a matter of plausibility.” 

“I still think you should have confided in me.” 

“Pass the gumdrops. You should be used to this sort of thing. It’s like the time we went after Emory Partridge.  Why should it bother you now?  By the way, Mr. Waverly told me it wouldn’t hurt you to come down a peg.” 

“Funny thing – He said the same thing about you." Solo added a tiny silver ball to the row of window trim.  "I don’t like secrets.” 

“Ironic, considering your chosen profession.” Kuryakin ate a gumdrop. 

“I think you’re enjoying this.” 

“Not really. People still stop talking when they see me. Or they say hello, too cheerfully. Even though my act of negligence was just that – an act, it’s embarrassing.” Kuryakin ate another gumdrop. “What happened to the house? It looks like it exploded.” He picked up a gingerbread square. 

“Put that back unless you intend to use it on the house.  It fell apart last night.” 

Kuryakin surveyed the ruined house. “Where does this piece go?” 

“I don’t really know. Let's pick up the pieces and try to sort things out.” Solo handed Kuryakin another square. “Put these on the counter. I guess I’ve had enough of being kept in the dark for a while.” 

“How do you think I felt?  I didn’t like lying to you. But I happened to be the one with Siroux when he gave us Lang. I was the one in charge of the interrogation. Why would Mr. Waverly pull you off the button factory clean-up just to let you in on catching the mole? It didn’t make sense.” 

“Mr. Waverly said that, too.” 

“Napoleon, someone may be watching every move we make.  Your reaction had to be utterly genuine, to allay suspicion. In case there really is another Thrush plant.” 

“Mr. Waverly –” 

“Said that, too. He told me it was crucial to keep you uninformed in order to make your reaction real. I was against it," Kuryakin said. "But have you ever known Mr. Waverly to be wrong?" Kuryakin picked up a table knife and dipped it into the bowl of frosting. "I think we should patch the cracks in what's still standing. Here, and here."   

Solo said, “Now, if you hold these two walls steady, we can rebuild the collapsed section." He picked up a gingerbread rectangle, piped lines of frosting along its bottom and sides, and joined it with Kuryakin's segment.  When the walls were in place, they turned their attention to the roof. Bit by bit, they worked until the gingerbread house was repaired.

"It's better looking the first one," said Kuryakin. "Sturdier, too."

"I think we've got a winner," said Solo.

"Me too."

"Put the gumdrop back or I'll break your fingers."

* * * *

  

Laying low for the next couple of months was probably the best strategy.  Tough luck for Tony Lang, but it was a small price to pay to throw Waverly off the scent.  Besides, the lull would allow some well-needed time to plan the next move with care. 

The Christmas tree looked so lovely, shining in the dark. She took a sip of cognac and opened the file folder and read. The project proposal had a good deal of potential. 

‘Windfall.’ Interesting name.

 

 

**The End**

 

 


End file.
